Lay Me On The Ground, Fly Me In The Sky
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Dean hates flying, mostly due to his lack of control in the situation. And the rest of it? Well, the fear had to stem from something, right? Or, someone. One-shot.


**Title:** Lay Me On the Ground, Fly Me In The Sky

**Summary:** Dean hates flying, mostly due to his lack of control in the situation. And the rest of it? Well, the fear had to stem from something, right? Or, someone. One-shot.

**Rating:** T

**Author:** Michelle Shavlik

**A/N:** Written for the Sam, Dean, Planes, And Clowns, Oh My! challenge at supernatural.tv. Title from "Shine" by Collective Soul

**Warnings:** One word and implied abuse.

**Disclaimer:** Come on, guys. If I owned the show, Dean would be crazy by now. We all know how much I love Crazy!Dean, right? Well, then I guess we're lucky the show and its characters belong to Kripke.**

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Lay Me On The Ground, Fly Me In The Sky

He was twenty-two, for crying out loud. Twenty-two and crying like a fucking baby. He had known it was a bad idea, had known that he shouldn't have turned on the television, flipped channels until he found the news. He just couldn't help himself, though. He had to know.

It was becoming his obsession. He needed to know, everyday, what was going on in the world. He needed to know that Sammy was ok.

Sighing, Dean flipped off the TV and wiped away his tears. He cringed as his fingers brushed the yellowing bruises that had been left in the wake of the post-college fight. Sam and his father had both walked away that night, one to a bus stop, the other to a bar. The one that had returned hadn't been too happy. Dean had still been too shocked, too scared, too abandoned to react.

His father wouldn't even look at him anymore, had left for a hunt without mentioning returning. He was leaving it up in the air, not as decisive as Sam had been. It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered now.

Stanford hadn't been in the news, not for the past week. There had been no fatal bus crashes. Sam hadn't called, but Dean was sure that he was all right. He was better than Dean, anyway. Had to be. Dean was broken. Dean couldn't be fixed. Sam at least had a fighting chance.

The hunter swiped a hand under his leaking nose and sighed again, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the silent room. It was too much, too much all at once. He'd lost his mother, his brother, his father, and now the only other person that had ever pretended to care about him.

He stared at the blank television screen, stared at it as if he could will it to take back the news, take back the tragedy, the death, the crushing of his hopes and dashing of his dreams.

He had wanted to go back to her, to beg her forgiveness for whatever it had been that he had done to make her mad, to settle once more into the embrace that he craved. He wanted those cookies of hers, the prize-winners, the ones she'd baked just for him. He wanted sympathy. He wanted to talk to someone who wouldn't laugh, wouldn't tell him to shut up, wouldn't greet his confessions with silence.

He wanted Cynthia. Cindy, to her friends.

He wanted just a little more love before the entire world crashed down around him like that plane had around her.

-.-.-.-.-

Dean scanned the street, still not trusting the new neighborhood after only a week. He probably looked ridiculous, a thirteen-year-old boy sitting on the front stoop of their rental home, staring out at the road, assessing it for threats as Sammy pedaled his bike in circles around the small driveway, barely content with the tiny bit of freedom their father had granted him before setting off on his latest hunt.

He'd walked out the door with his duffle slung over his back over a week and a half ago, and he hadn't returned. They had no more food, no more money. Dean made sure that he was the only one who knew about that. Sammy was still too young to worry about those things.

Dean had been watching their next door neighbor, some creepy older lady, for the past few days. From what he could see, she didn't have any pets, lived alone, and went grocery shopping a lot. She was a prime target.

He would do it that night, after putting Sam to bed. He'd sneak out, take what she had, and go back home. Sam would never know.

But it had to be that night, had to be soon. He'd tried to avoid it for as long as possible, tried to wait for dad. His stomach rumbled as he thought about it; cooking for Sam, fixing him what they had left, ignoring his own hunger for the sake of his brother. Dean hadn't eaten in two days. It was definitely time to restock. He'd done it before. He knew he could do it again.

Sammy made another circle in the driveway, rolling his eyes as he passed by his brother, practically begging to venture out into the street. Dean gave him a slight nod, still watching the road, and Sam pedaled out onto the street, smiling wide.

At the same time, the door to the next house over opened, revealing the night's target. She was a little older than John, her graying hair tied up in a bun. She had a trash bag in each hand, and nodded a greeting to Dean as she took the bags out to the cans that sat at the end of her drive. He waved, forcing a smile.

She looked nice enough. It almost made him feel bad about what he was about to do. Then his stomach growled at him and he forgot all about her nod and smile. What he was interested in was her fridge.

-.-

The lock had been easy enough to pick. He had gone in through the back door, and was happy to find that it led straight into the kitchen. He slunk through the shadows, hoisting a backpack over his shoulder as he crawled through the darkness of the house toward the refrigerator.

He dropped his bag and slowly opened the door, squinting at the light that shone from the inside of the appliance. His vision cleared quickly enough and he began his inspection.

There was lunchmeat, a bag of grapes, left-over spaghetti, cold soup, some beans, a salad, other assorted odds and ends. They all went into his backpack, placed carefully and lovingly.

Dean closed the door, blinking as his eyes readjusted to the darkness in the room. He gazed around the small kitchen, finding sliced bread and a couple of Tupperware containers on the counter. He put the bread in his bag and looked at the containers, his stomach rumbling.

His watch said it was still late, a little past midnight. He figured he could stop for a short snack, maybe look around the house and see if there was anything of value there. He hated the thought of stealing more from a woman who had never done anything to him, but they _were_ low on cash, and Dean was never one to let an opportunity pass him by.

He left his bag on the kitchen floor and absently grabbed one of the containers, popping it open to find half a dozen or so chocolate chip cookies. He smiled at his good fortune and wandered into the next room over.

He absently popped a cookie in his mouth, stifling a moan of pleasure as his taste buds cried out in joy at the sensation, his stomach grumbling out a muted thank-you.

The woman's living room was adorned with pictures of herself at a younger age, along with snapshots of a man Dean assumed to have been her husband and some kid who was probably her son. Or, who had been her son. According to a newspaper clipping that had been framed and hung up on the wall, both men were dead. Died in a plane crash.

Dean shuddered. How anyone could willing let themselves get thrown up in the air like that, giving up control, was beyond him. He'd flown many a time in his young life, propelled by whatever spirit they happened to be hunting that week, and he always crash-landed. He'd never been on a plane, though. Never planned on going, either. They were big, scary, _heavy_ metal contraptions. Metal was not meant to fly, not at that weight. The clipping on the wall only supported his theory.

He turned his attention from the photos to the rest of the room. There was a table with some fake flowers in a vase in the center, sitting between a large couch and a newer TV. The boy smiled. The place they'd rented didn't have a television, and most of the motels they stayed at didn't have working sets. It might be nice to sit back and relax for a while.

He turned on the set and hit the volume button, keeping the steady hum of the programming quiet. He found some old cartoon and settled in to watch, happily munching on cookies as the minutes dragged on and his eyelids grew heavy.

Before he knew it, Dean was asleep.

-.-

The boy awoke to find a soft blue blanket covering his body, the empty Tupperware container no longer at his side, television turned off. Small clinking noises could be heard from the kitchen.

Slowly, Dean slid off the couch and walked from the house, opening he door as quietly as he could.

He ran across her lawn and into his own, praying that she wouldn't come after him, wouldn't press charges, wouldn't tell his father. John didn't know about the frequent food shortages, the things that Dean had done to keep himself and his brother fed.

He unlocked the front door and slid into his own house, locking up. He sat down at the kitchen table. He'd left his bag, left the food. They didn't have breakfast. He was going to have to go somewhere else, find another house. He didn't have time.

The doorbell rang. Dean's heart pounded in his chest as he approached the door, stopped completely when he opened it.

The woman stood there, long hair hanging down, blowing into her face with the slight breeze. "You forgot something." She held up his backpack, still open and overflowing with food.

Dean shook his head, trying to look as innocent as possible. "That's not mine."

She raised an eyebrow. "Come on. You can't fool me, Dean."

He took a stumbling step back. "How do you…?"

She gently pushed the bread down into his bag to reveal a small white tag with his name written on it. "And your reaction proves that you were just lying to me."

The boy couldn't stop the heat that crept into his face. "Look, lady-"

"Call me Cindy. All my friends do."

He blinked. "Friends?"

To Dean's surprise, the old woman smiled. "Yes, Dean. Friends." She held his bag out toward him, and he took it, pulling it close to his chest, eyeing her with mistrust. "The next time you need something," she said, "just ask."

Cindy flashed a quick smile and turned away. He stood in the doorway and watched her walk off, his mouth hanging open in surprise. She hadn't been mad. She hadn't been mad, and she had given him his stuff- mostly _her_ stuff- back to him. He didn't know what to think of that.

-.-

They stayed in town for two more weeks that summer. Most days, Dean left Sam to his own devices. He wanted to find out more about Cindy, about her intentions. She must have been possessed, or somehow evil, to have taken an interest in him like that.

He tried squirting her with holy water he'd put inside a small squirt gun, but she didn't react, at least not the way he'd expected. She'd simply laughed.

He'd done research, hung around her everyday. She took an interest in his life, wanted to know more about his family. After a week without finding anything off about her, besides her kindness, he started telling her big things. He told her the truth.

He told her about his mother, his father, his brother. He told her about ghosts and demons and spirits. She believed him. She said that she thought her house might be haunted. He offered to help her with that.

Cindy took Sam to a movie while Dean performed an exorcism, helping to guide whatever was haunting Cindy- most likely the ghost of someone in her family, due to its apparently benign nature- into the light. When she got back, after making sure that Sammy was snuggled up safe and sound under his covers so that Dean wouldn't have to, she offered to reward him.

She had baked up some cookies- the most amazing things Dean had ever tasted- the day before. He sat at the kitchen table with her as he ate them, and explained his theory on the haunting and what he'd done to help her out.

"Thanks so much," she said, looking around and breathing in the fresh air that seemed to permeate the house in the ghost's absence. "You did good."

He nearly chocked on a mouthful of cookie. "What?" he sputtered.

"You did a good job," she repeated.

Dean felt himself smile, felt his stomach twist into a warm knot. No one had said anything like that to him in a long time, not since before his mother had died. He liked it. It was nice.

"Say it again?" he asked, his voice soft, eyes cast toward the table.

"You did good." Her voice was soft as well, concerned, but he didn't care. If felt so good. Like he had finally done something right.

"Could you…" He stopped. What if she said no? What if she got mad?

"Yes?"

"Say my… my name… with it? Maybe?"

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and looked up to find Cindy smiling down at him with tears in her soft blue eyes. "You did a very good job today, Dean. I'm proud of you."

That last part just about broke him.

-.-

Dean liked hanging out with Cindy. She liked him. He reminded her of her own son, she said. Dean didn't really care who he reminded her of, as long as she liked him; as long as she smiled at him and said nice things to him and baked him cookies and listened to him and gave him money to take care of Sammy. She offered to baby-sit sometime so that he could go do something fun by himself. She asked him when his birthday was so that she could get him something nice.

Dean didn't want to move away. He liked staying in one place, liked staying with Cindy. She thought he was a good kid, too responsible for his own good. She wanted to help him.

He was almost disappointed when his dad came back, walked through the door with some old gas station licorice for Sammy and a mumbled half-thanks for Dean. He hugged Sam, nodded at Dean, and asked when dinner was going to be. Dean had put it in the oven half an hour before his father's entrance, so anytime now.

The older boy excused himself after dinner and snuck away to Cindy's house. She'd left a key under the mat for him so that he never had to break in again. He walked in, found her, and tried to explain. He didn't want to leave, but now it was inevitable.

She wrapped her arms around him as he sat on the couch, stroking his hair, whispering nonsense to him as he cried. She told him that they could keep in touch, that all he had to do was call, and he knew her number, right? Right. That didn't change anything, though. Dean wanted _this_, wanted contact, not some stupid voice over the miles. He wanted someone to comfort him and listen to him, and just _be there_.

It wasn't fair.

-.-

Two days of packing up later, and the Winchester family was ready to leave. John already had another hunt lined up. Dean snuck away again, this time to say good-bye.

His key wasn't under the mat by the front door. Figuring that Cindy had already moved it, expecting his absence, he knocked.

The woman who answered the door looked nothing like Cindy. Her hair was pulled tightly back into a pony-tail and her eyes were hard. "Yes?"

"I wanted to say good-bye," Dean said. "And, thank you."

"Good-bye." Her voice was curt, her mouth drawn into a thin line as she glanced toward his house.

"We're leaving today."

She nodded. "For the best."

"Cindy?"

The woman drew herself up, eyes flicking back toward the place that the Winchesters were leaving behind. "It's Cynthia," she stated before slamming the door in his face.

Every bit of hope she'd instilled in the boy, everything that she'd done to make him feel like he was worth something, like someone could love him again, faded with the wood-on-wood sound of the door hitting its frame.

It was in that moment that Dean knew there was something wrong with him. Why else would someone string him along for so long only to do such a cruel thing?

Hanging his head, rejection heavy on his heart, Dean went back to his house.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The spirit watched the man cry- big tears, dribbling one at a time down his face, streaking across freckles that she was amused to see he hadn't lost as the years had gone by.

She wished that she could have told him, could have let him know that she couldn't defy his father's wishes, that John had followed him the night he'd gotten home, had watched as Dean sat in her living room and cried in her arms.

Cindy sighed, reaching up and wiping away the blood that still dribbled from her spectral forehead. A light shone in the corner of her vision, within her reach, and she could hear her husband and son calling to her, but she couldn't go yet. Not until she saw the man that Dean Winchester, the little thief, had become.

Truth be told, she felt a little guilty. John had knocked on her door late at night, demanding to know what she had done to make his son cry. She had foolishly demanded to know why he suddenly seemed to care.

That had been her mistake.

John had threatened her, threatened to hurt her if she so much as spoke to his son again. She had been afraid. Dean had told her stories of what his father had done, the things he had killed. There was no doubt in Cindy's mind that he could murder a person, as well. As much as she hated to admit it, she had obeyed his order to stay away from Dean. She had let the little boy down.

She had let the boy down, and this was what he had become. He had been abandoned again. This time, apparently, his brother had gotten in on the action, as well. He was alone, crying, shaking, _scared_. She had to make him know that it wasn't his fault.

Cindy ignored the light a little longer, walked toward the man, and set a hand on his shoulder. Dean stiffened at the touch. She leaned down until her lips were right next to his ear. "They don't know what they're missing," she whispered.

She straightened up and looked toward the light, toward her husband and son, marveling at the fact that she had met her fate as they had, plunging into the ocean during a storm.

The spirit smiled. "I'm ready."

The light overtook her.

-.-

Dean stiffened, his sobs quieting as something cold settled onto his shoulder and the smell of fresh-baked cookies overwhelmed his nostrils. "They don't know what they're missing," a familiar voice whispered into his ear, and he felt himself relax.

Her touch faded, the smell that had suddenly filled the room dispersing with it, and the hunter smiled.

He grabbed the remote and turned the television back on. He felt better somehow, like he had closure, like everyone's departure wasn't his fault. He watched as wreckage from Cindy's plane was pulled from the ocean, and shuddered, despite himself.

"What a way to go," he muttered. Dean had never liked the concept of planes, but thanks to Cindy, he knew for sure that flying wasn't for him. Not even if Sammy came back and begged him.

Yeah, like that would ever happen.

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The End.

So, any final thoughts before we leave? The stuff with Cindy is something I've wanted to write for a long time. Originally, she was an old woman with Alzheimer's that Dean kinda took advantage of because she thought he was her grandson and doted upon him after he busted a ghost. Obviously, that changed, and the storyline shifted a bit to accomodate the challenge.

Anyway, I'd love to know what you think :)


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